


Dig into the Old World's Ghosts

by PomoneCorse



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Canon Typical Content Warning, Gen, Runs Away From Her Past, Sad Mom Adopts Angry Teenage Spy, Takes Him Adventuring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-03 01:23:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12738180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PomoneCorse/pseuds/PomoneCorse
Summary: What better way to prove yourself than spy on the infamous Courier Six? Shouldn't be any trouble, not for a trained frumentari like you, not years after the Second Battle at the Damn.Go on, kid.





	Dig into the Old World's Ghosts

Dawn was slowly creeping into the sky; already the waters of the Colorado had begun to turn red and gold, the rays of the sun piercing the veil of night. On the ridge overlooking a bend in the river stood a man. This man exuded, for lack of a better term, vagueness. Average height, brown travel clothes and duffel bag, a typical stormchaser hat made to wear on trips across scorched wastes, a scarf pulled tight across his face. And now that the light had begun hitting the land, he brought down the sunglasses that had been laying on the edge of his hat, and spread out an half-torn, stained paper at his feet.

That was a map, at which he stared for some rather long minutes. His left index followed an invisible line; his right thumb pressed at regular intervals next to it. When his hand had reached the edge of the paper, he folded it neatly, and stuck it in one of his pockets. His left hand flexed several times, and he was off, heavy boots sliding across gravel and muddy sand.

When the sun rose fully, it shone on a deep set of footprints, and the lingering smell of iron.

* * *

The camping spot did not even appear on most maps; a campfire littered with bottles and pans stood opposite a curve in the stream. Some enterprising soul had long ago stuck a couple of planks over two boulders, and every now and again someone replaced the tarp over those. Most people did not stay long; here was half a day away from the larger settlement of Davis Dam, a literal bridge across the river for adventuring caravans. Tacitus found it mind-numbingly dreary. He had been waiting hours, fingers itching for his missing machete, head snapping up every time he heard someone coming up the road. A trader had stopped, once, to water his brahmin. Tiny twin heads had popped over the side of the wagon, stared at him rather intently (he had certainly not grimaced back) until they’d gone, a cloud of dust following in a heavy cloud. He would kill for something to happen. He would even -Mars forbid- listen to Alerio talk about the wiles of profligates for hours in exchange for just something new.

Or go find Dirus and ask him to tell him once again of the first solo interrogation he’d made.

* * *

Weeks later, running for his life after a certain courier had stirred up yet another deathclaw nest, he thought back to that moment, and felt like kicking himself quite a bit. A lot, actually.

* * *

The target (dissolute, her family heavily involved with the trading in the mesas back east, late twenties to early thirties, red hair and a face covered with scars, heavily armed) did not appear before dusk. She walked next to a small caravan (two other redheaded adult men to watch out for, three well-fed brahmin, a one-eyed teenager with an ugly scowl; all probably from the same family), rifle held loosely in her hands, belt jiggling with ammo and caps. If not for the defaced ranger helmet hanging down her pack, she’d have been just another trader. As it stood, Tacitus waited until they’d passed, and followed the dust. One of the first lessons he’d been given, that first year outside of the Temple, had been to always stay on his guard. Here in civilized territory, people more often than not guessed that a young man like him was Legion, and acted accordingly. That had been useful, because then the one training him could pass unobserved. Age-old trick: get someone’s attention with one hand and fleece them with the other. Show something shiny and new, run the blade through the other side. Or would it be the machete? Tacitus has never been very good with analogies, except perhaps when having to sit still and listen to Kotey talk about himself. Wait, no, not even then. He tended to run out of nature similes after the eleventh deer drawing. He looked up, and the smile on his face froze. The dissolute woman stood a few meters ahead, staring at him. Her scars formed a strange rictus in the shadows. She spoke first, with a trader’s voice, mild but grating, words sharp and syllables slow:

“Where’s th’rest of your contub- uhm… group, gamin?”

She had a would-be pleasant smile on her lips that did not reach up to her eyes. Her hands held the rifle tighter than before, feet anchored in the dirt. Tacitus’ gaze flicked to the other caravanners, who were now staring at him. The woman coughed.

“Mole-rat gotcha tongue?”

“I’m a courier,” he said quickly. “Ma’am,” he added, falling back on the one persona his instructor had prepared with him. Meek, a bit naive, wide-eyed. At that her eyes lit up, though her smile changed. It was meaner, sharper. Tacitus did not like it one bit.

“Whatta co-inci-dence! So am I, see. Which way ya headed, gamin? Might be travelin’ together quite a’while.”

“Maxson actually, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t gimme that. ‘m not a matron yet, thank the Mothers! Mind walkin’ with us until the Hub though? Roads aren’t as safe ‘cross the river, and I’d feel mighty bad lettin’ ya do that trek all on your lonesome.”

Tacitus nearly frowned: beliefs in anything other than Mars and his son were almost unheard of in the core Legion lands. His superior officer had laughed his ass off when he’d asked about the way of life of the tribes before, and told him they were harmless, soon to be eradicated tribal lies. He tried to hide his reaction by wiping off the dust on his brow.

“That’s very kind of you. What should I call you then, ma’...”

“Saturnia’s fine, gamin. What about ya?” she cut in, eyes never leaving him.

“I’m Tam, ma’a… Saturnia.”

She lowered her rifle, and extended her hand. How had she gotten closer? He hadn’t seen her move. Tacitus could see the bumps and countless little scars on her knuckles, raised white lines over tan skin. Blood stained the wrist of her duster. ‘Tam’ shook hands with Saturnia: grip not too strong, pressing on the calluses one might gain with a gun, or a blade. It was as if someone had stepped over his grave, a cold shiver running up his spine. He was hit with the thought he’d just stepped into a predator’s den. But the only way out was through, and so he marched on. Forcing a boyish, naive smile on his face, he caught up to the wagon, and started walking to the rhythm of the brahmin.

* * *

The room spun. Tacitus didn’t remember ever feeling this light. No, actually, there had been a few times before getting sent away from the Temple when Kotey’s mom had spoken oh-so kindly to him. His voice had failed then, and it was failing now, and why couldn’t he speak? The targe... the dissolu... Saturnia, was sitting next to him, radiating warmth and by Mars, was she too loud and too much! At least she was handing him little glasses, one after the other, and he’d worried at first, yes, but then she’d told him it was alright, and that she wouldn’t tell on him… He thought she was mocking, but she’d patted his hand, yes, and assured him all would be fine. It would be, she’d said, kept quiet, with her wide eyes and deep scars like a web on her face. And he’d had a part to play still, so he did as she had said.

He stood up- too fast, too fast! One moment he’d been sitting and now he was looking at the ceiling of the little bar; wasn’t it strange? There were cracks in the building, little holes in the ceiling, testifying to more than two hundred years of continued existence. He felt poetic, let himself think back to the Legion. Wasn’t it sad, too, that already it showed signs of strains? It was older than himself, and yet he could see where its children failed. They couldn’t see the big picture, he thought, not with… not with something? Where was he going with this?

“Aw, c’mon, gamin. You didn’t even drink all that much!” Saturnia was looking down at him, perched high over the stool. He grinned at her, and saw her face go soft-soft-softer? He liked her face much better now than when they’d met, and told her so.

She chuckled, a raspy laugh that resonated over her glass. “I’m glad you think so.”

He thought she might have spoken again, but the words washed over him, until she was standing at his elbow. When had he gotten up?

“...maybe we should get you water before, though. Rodge’s a nice man but he hasn’t got manners, what with ’ll those soldier boys passin’ through last year…”

There was cool night breeze on his face, and then he was trying to breathe through a pillow. He rolled over, only to catch the sight of the woman’s duster going out the open door.

* * *

She stepped out of the shack, and let herself breathe. It was a clear night.

Here on the outskirts of the town over Five Lakes, Saturnia could see green nuclear glow taint the edge of the sky, murky emerald reflections in the water. Stars so faraway, lights like someone had splashed white paint on the ceiling, and the night breeze carrying the smell of the Wood’s Roses growing at the edge of Miss Quentin’s garden- her heart suddenly constricted, as if a great yawning abyss had opened below, waiting for any false move. For a few precarious seconds, she stood at the edge of it, to fall into, to step away safe.

A group of children ran laughing, and the feeling passed. First things first: find a place where she could sit. Standing in the middle of the street leads more easily to getting run over by an excited pack-brahmin than fruitful contemplation. Head held high, wild tufts of red hair framing her scarred jaw, she made her way to the Found Tree. That name had probably started as a bad joke- the thing sat at the edge of what maps told her had once been called the Lost Lake, now just another part of the bigger body of water. The plant itself was a gnarly twisting of wood, dry and sinister and two dozen feet up into the air. Nobody stayed here longer than they had to. Except for adventurous teenagers, she would be left well enough alone. Once she had her back to the bark, thinking was much easier.

Fact number one: people were spying on her. That much had been true since that business in Zion, the tentative agreement between Happy Trails and Rufus Consortium. Her private letters to Waking Cloud were getting read. Some of her uncles and cousins had reported antsy passengers on their own caravans, possible spies- Grandma Sabine had declared them to be a rival family’s and let the matter rest.

Fact number two: the Legion was getting antsy. After marching over the Dam and into Vegas, she’d naively believed they’d leave her and her caravans alone; that with the new land at the West, and with the NCR retreating to lick their wounds, her family could expand its hold on trading once again. But now? Something was happening; the stranglehold the slave army held on its territory was tightening, and for a bright, terrible moment, Saturnia could only see bound hands, a grave, the white silver of Maria over Goodsprings.

It was swept away with the light of a curious glowbug.

Fact number three: the Legion could go burn in a ditch for all she cared. Even after speaking with the head honcho, she’d remained unconvinced of his and his slave army’s ideals. No, the Mojave had been an opportunity, the next step in expanding trade over the river, not the next step in mankind’s history. Plus, if the Legion was occupied West, people East could maybe breathe more easily, organize, live. The major worry was that the army’s fall would take them all down with it.

Heart weary with thoughts of impending doom, her gaze rose back up to the night sky. Glowbugs drifted through the open canopy, like so many paper lanterns. The first time they’d passed through Five Lakes, Grandma Sabine had explained that they used to be all green when she herself was very small. Over the century, they’d started using different colors, illuminating the sky like a wildflower field; every time Saturnia had passed here she’d spared some time to watch the lights, letting it soothe her on her way to the dread in the East or the constant looking-over one’s shoulder in the West. Now, after the Dam? After seeing the neon lights of Vegas finally go out for its new lord and master? After the fires in Novac? In Freeside? In Westside? Now the lights were so cold, just simple bugs drifting in the air. How cliché, she thought, for a comforting sight to no longer be so. As if she were some world-weary traveler in a two-caps novel out of New Reno, with a 9mm on one side and a mutt on the other, ready to dole out justice, seduce lonely barmaids and naive farmhands. Leave into the night, without word, and go on the next adventure. The thought hung there in the air, ripened as she contemplated. Shattered when she snorted derisively. Didn’t she just do this? Run away and tried to pretend all was fine? What a fat load of good that had done: not a month into trying to wander off and already a barely-grown boy had been sent trailing after her. She couldn’t even step into the new NCR territory anymore; not without two or three Rangers dogging her every footstep.

With a grunt, she heaved herself up to her feet. Well, whatever. At least she could go dig into the ghosts of the Old World, and pointedly not think about what the future held. Supposed she could ditch the cousins she’d been caravaning with, see how Legion training fared in underground city-sized tombs. If she got lost and died down in a vault, who cared, anyway? One less player on the wasteland checkboard, and she doubted the kid was anyone important either, not with how bad he had been at spying so far. Decision made, she walked back in town, scrawling a short note for the cousins and mapping routes to possible neighboring vaults as she went. On a whim, she plucked a rose of Sharon from the lone garden at the outskirts of town and tucked it in over her heart. Keep your friends close, right?

Especially when those friends hated your guts.

* * *

Tacitus eyed the steel tomb warily. He had never actually been to a vault before, much less seen its door; the big dented circle covering a big yawning hole leading into big empty darkness. Had he said big already? Because that vault door sure was big. Big as anything, he might even say. He glanced at Saturnia. She was busy playing with the toy on her wrist and a console, and every so often she’d hum words to half-remembered songs. His job was to watch out for and take potshots at any encroaching vermin with the 9mm she’d handed him. He’d grimaced, had moved to hand it back, but she’d put on her defaced ranger helmet and walked away. The same helmet he was burning a hole into with his eyes; had it been a spoil of war? Had it been a gift she’d gotten from some service rendered to profligates? To the enemy? Whispers of the Mojave had made their way back East, at least for those in the know; some said she had been working for the NCR, for the recluse in Vegas, for raiders and traders and ghouls, before pledging herself to the Son of Mars. He could not be sure, could not let his guard down.

An alarm rung, shrill and piercing. The door rolled with a croak to the side, and Tacitus nearly jumped out of his skin. Saturnia stood hands on her hips, her helmet’s red glow adding a totally-not-eerie feeling to the already creepy underground.

“What’cha waitin’ for, gamin? Let’s go!” rang her voice, metallic in the helmet.

And so Tacitus strolled in after her, trying best as he could to push down feelings of doom.

* * *

“An’ ah know som’a them pre-war folks mighta been kooky,real shitstains, seein’ as t'how they blew the worl’ up, but som’ musta been normal peeps, ya know?”

Tacitus tried tuning her out. His flashlight swept over the schoolroom, illuminating scattered school desks and schoolbooks. On all three walls were children’s drawings and posters. The most striking was the one with three little versions of what his companion had informed him was a Vaultie; all dressed in different colors, the one in blue leaning on the one in red who pushed down on the one in green. All three were smiling, and his stomach dropped as their unblinking eyes seemed to follow him as he moved.

He was still staring at the poster when a heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. Without a thought, he grabbed it and tugged downwards. Shifting his center of gravity from his torso to his hips, he forced his assailant up over his back and down to the ground. Something heavy slammed into the wall.

And he saw Saturnia’s duster-clad figure lying upside-down on the ground before him.

Panic rose in his gut. What was he going to tell Alerio? The officer had been clear about this being a simple observation job, about waiting to see if there were allies. Now he’d killed her and the other frumentarii were going to kill him in turn and maybe torture him and crucify him and… She moved, limbs folding and unfolding like a monstrous cazador-sized spider. He wanted to hurl.

“Remind me to never scare ya ‘gain, Tam. Feels like a bighorner kicked me.”

He could hear a note of satisfaction in her voice. Why?

“An’ close your mouth. Look like fish up in Mead.”

Tacitus closed it.

“Let’s go, gamin. Heard’a vault riches before? Jumpsuits an’ radiation beyon’ your heart’s desires! Incal-cu-lable skellin’tons!”

And before he could answer, she sauntered off into the darkness of the hallway.


End file.
